


Lavender

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Awkward Kissing, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Inline with canon, M/M, Manga Spoilers, No Plot/Plotless, Past Relationship(s), Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5352899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'You’re avoiding me,' Byakuran declares. He stops moving, pauses in the middle of the hallway; one hip is tipped out to the side, even standing still made graceful by his framing. 'You’ve barely said three words to me all day.'" Irie stresses and Byakuran smoothes him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lavender

Irie can’t get his heart to stop racing.

It’s because of Byakuran. Irie’s been fighting with the speed of his pulse for hours, now, pushing back the gravity-defying surges of adrenaline at the other’s presence that twist his stomach with nausea between warring with the chill shudder of resignation to nothing happening at all, attempting to sustain the weight of depression that sinks into him every time Byakuran leaves the room without saying anything to him. The weight is almost comforting, if only for the way it steadies the shudder of anticipation in his stomach, and every time Irie tells himself this is it, this is fine, he’d rather be disappointed than stressed...and then Byakuran comes back into eyeshot, and everything in Irie’s body goes hot like it’s lighting up with electricity all over again. It’s been an exhausting day, and compared to some of the memories in Irie’s mind that’s saying quite a lot, especially since he hasn’t really done much other than silently stress in the corner every time Byakuran is in view.

He finally retreats to the bathroom after the fight is over. It feels better to have the door locked behind him, like he’s putting up a wall between himself and the world, and it’s better still to be able to look his reflection in the eye and stare until the visible strain in his jaw and across his shoulders eases into something like calm. He splashes water on his face, rinses the sour taste of too much excitement out of his mouth, cups more water in his palms; it’s soothing, pulls the clammy catch of sweat away from his skin along with the heat of his flush, and by the time he’s drying his face Irie feels something like human again.

When he opens the door, Byakuran is waiting for him.

Irie freezes. For a moment he would swear even his heart stops, that his entire body locks itself into immobility from an excess of adrenaline. There is a very brief moment of silence, enough time for his head to offer  _oh shit_  very faintly into the quiet of his thoughts; then his heart thuds itself back into action, all his blood simultaneously tries to drain from his face and burn crimson in his cheeks, and it’s only locking his knees that keeps Irie from collapsing to the floor right there.

Byakuran smiles. The curve of his lips catches the corners of his eyes, drawing them into shadow and smoke; Irie can feel his breathing stutter in his chest. “Sho-chan.” A purr, music on Byakuran’s tongue; he unfolds his arms from his chest, straightens from the elegant lean he has at the wall. “Fancy finding you here.”

“Byakuran,” Irie says in an unrecognizable voice, the words echoing strangely against the inside of his ribcage and catching on the roaring in his ears.

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran says again, rolling the name over on his tongue until Irie almost doesn’t hear the danger under it, almost misses the shadows that cling to the corners of the consonants. Byakuran takes a step forward. Irie’s fingers tighten on the doorhandle. “Are you avoiding me?”

“What?” Irie offers weakly, because it’s taking him a moment to process basic linguistic comprehension with how hard his heart is pounding; then, stronger, gaining strength on disbelief: “ _What_?”

“You’re avoiding me,” Byakuran declares. He stops moving, pauses in the middle of the hallway; one hip is tipped out to the side, even the simple act of standing still made graceful by his framing. “You’ve barely said three words to me all day.”

“What,” Irie repeats. His adrenaline is knotting into a weight inside his ribcage, the support of his temper rising along the tremor of his spine. It’s better, this way, better to seize for the anger with both hands; it steadies his knees, braces his shoulders, and when he frowns he feels like he’s nearly himself again. “ _I’ve_ \--you’ve been  _fighting_ , Byakuran, you’ve been  _busy_.”

“Excuses,” Byakuran tells him, and he’s leaning in but Irie isn’t shaking anymore, Irie is glaring up at him as his hands go to fists at his sides. Byakuran’s still smiling, his lips curved on amusement Irie suspects is at his expense. “I haven’t seen you in  _years_ , couldn’t you find a few minutes to say hello to your best friend?”

“That’s...that’s not  _fair_ ,” Irie protests. “I’ve never met you in this timeline before today. Besides, you live in  _Italy_ , how was I supposed to--”

“I’m here now,” Byakuran cuts him off. He’s close, now; Irie’s face has fallen into shadow with Byakuran leaning in towards him. “And you’ve just been staring at me from across the room instead of saying something.”

“I,” Irie starts, and then he takes a breath and he can taste flowers in the air, lavender and lilac clinging to his tongue, and his temper unravels on itself, collapses like a knot cut through the middle. His hands undo the fists he’s made, his shoulders tilt back, and when he hits the edge of the door there is a brief moment of panic, the instinctive need to run stalling against the resistance at his back. “I wasn’t staring.”

“You were,” Byakuran says. His hand comes out, braces at the wall over Irie’s shoulder; Irie’s knees start to shake. “You were  _staring_.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Irie manages, his voice breaking to pieces, his vision blurring at the edges to frame Byakuran in a hazy halo of white. “You were busy, if you didn’t want to talk to me I didn’t--”

“Don’t pout, Sho-chan,” Byakuran tells him. When he breathes out Irie can feel the heat of his exhale, can feel his hair ruffle against his forehead with the action. “Of course I wanted to talk to you. You’re my best friend.”

“I know,” Irie says, because he does, but the words wobble in his throat, grate themselves to pieces on the flutter of his heart pounding hard against the inside of his chest. “I know I am.”

“And I’m yours,” Byakuran says without a trace of apology in his tone. He takes a slow inhale, like he’s breathing in the heat off Irie’s flushed cheeks, and Irie’s glasses fog to white for a moment. “Sho-chan.”

“Yes?” Irie asks, trying to sound reasonable and only succeeding in cracking his voice on the high skip of adrenaline in his veins.

Byakuran breathes against his hair. “Have you been kissed before?”

Irie’s stomach drops, falls past his feet and keeps falling. “I...I remember--”

“I didn’t ask what you remembered,” Byakuran says, cutting off Irie’s shaky words with the firm certainty of a knife edge. “I asked you if you’ve kissed anyone. In this timeline. Yourself.”

Irie’s lungs work on a breath of air, his pulse stuttering in his throat. He shakes his head, a tiny, desperate motion before he can get his mouth to work right. “No.”

“How exciting,” Byakuran purrs. Irie can feel the vibration of the sound all the way down his spine. “I’ve never been your first before.”

Irie breathes out. His heart is racing, his vision is blurring; he isn’t sure how he’s still standing, is fairly certain it’s only the wall at his back keeping him upright. Byakuran is still leaning over him, still so close Irie can taste perfume on his tongue with every breath, but he’s not moving, he’s not leaning in closer, and Irie’s thoughts are tripping over themselves so quickly he’s not even sure it’s been more than a breath of time.

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran says, sugar and shadows, danger on his tongue and electricity in Irie’s already shaky veins. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

It’s a command. Irie knows it for such even if it sounds like a question, even if the hurt-feeling tone of it sounds like a plea. He whimpers, a faint shattered sound of absolute panic, fists his fingers hard against his palms until he can feel the ache; and then he moves, fast, in a burst of motion rushed enough that he doesn’t have time to undermine himself with doubt. His hand catches at the back of Byakuran’s neck, he unfolds his tense fingers to grab against pale hair, and then he surges forward, harder than he should, farther than he needs to, crushes his mouth to Byakuran’s with all haste and no grace. Their teeth bump together, Irie’s lip catching and bruising in the pressure; he lingers for a moment, settling into the too-much force of the kiss, and then draws back, shaking with adrenaline and the heat of embarrassment firing hot in his veins.

Byakuran takes a breath, touches his tongue to his lip. He looks elegant, composed, like he’s unaffected by the desperate force of Irie crushing his mouth to the other’s; it makes Irie cringe from his own too-hard movement, makes him duck his head and shut his eyes as all his skin flushes to the flame of miserable self-consciousness.

“Let me go,” he says to the darkness of his shut eyes. “Just let me  _go_ , Byakuran.”

“I’m not stopping you,” Byakuran’s voice comes, laughter clear in his throat even if Irie’s tight-shut eyes are keeping him from seeing the other’s smile. “That was  _terrible_ , Sho-chan.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Irie sobs, his bruised lip aching, his shut eyes burning with the threat of tears.

“You’ll have to practice,” Byakuran tells him, and there are fingers at Irie’s chin, a hand catching at his skin and forcing his head up. Irie opens his eyes involuntarily, the shock of the contact enough to break his determination to keep his vision dark, and then he sees Byakuran’s smile, and he sees Byakuran’s eyes, and he can’t remember how to close his own again. “Hold still, Sho-chan.”

Byakuran leans in slow, carefully, crossing the distance between them with as much care as if the approach is part of the kiss as much as the contact itself. Irie can see Byakuran’s eyelashes flutter shut, can see his head tilt to the side, and then there’s heat at his mouth, the sweet-damp of Byakuran’s lips fitting to his, and he’s shutting his eyes without thinking, his attention scattering under the friction of Byakuran’s mouth. It’s different than he remembers, warmer and wetter and clearer, with the thud of panic still beating in place of his pulse and the heat of Byakuran so close he can feel it against all his exposed skin, and then Byakuran’s hand slides from his chin around to the back of his neck and Irie realizes his fingers are still making a fist of the other’s hair, still clinging to Byakuran like he’s about to vanish.

“Like this,” Byakuran murmurs against Irie’s mouth, fitting the words to the gap of the other’s parted lips. “You don’t need to rush, Sho-chan.” Another press of contact, friction against Irie’s bruise-aching lip, and Irie’s throat makes a low sound, a whimper turned around on itself until it sounds like a moan against the inside of his chest. His fingers ease on Byakuran’s hair, smooth out to drag against the back of the other’s neck, and Byakuran hums against his mouth, pulls back for a moment to breathe heat over Irie’s skin.

“Better,” he says, and he sounds calm but Irie’s ears are ringing, his vision is going white and his legs are shaking and he can’t think through what he’s doing. “Now open your mouth, Sho-chan.” Irie makes another sound, an exhale cracked into want in his throat, and he opens his mouth as Byakuran leans in to fit his lips to Irie’s, to weight heat against his mouth for a moment before he licks against Irie’s lips and over his tongue as slowly as if he’s savouring some favorite treat. Irie shuts his eyes, and tightens his hold at Byakuran’s shoulder, and lets his heart race into hummingbird speed as the taste of lavender fills his mouth.

It’s sweeter than he remembers.


End file.
